Poison Ivy:Green Spring
by Jan Q
Summary: She calls out to me again. Not Poison Ivy just Pamela. I have not been Pamela for a long time. I killed her and buried her deep down inside, that stupid naïve school girl who didn’t know any better. Prologue to Scarecrow:Red Autumn. Femslash
1. Poison Ivy 1

It was early spring when they pulled the first body out of the big lake which sits in the heart of Robinson Park. It was a little girl no more than nine her limp black hair still tied up in little pigtails. I remember one of the younger children, his face shining with excitement, running to tell the others in a breathless whisper that he had seen men in blue uniforms armed with loudspeakers shouting out orders to other men in speedboats trawling the green waters. They were looking for someone. Someone important he emphasized in that exaggerated way that children do.

I followed discreetly from a distance when a group of the older ones, bored and eager for adventure, made their way down to gawk at the battalion of police cruisers out in force, their hands cupped over their ears to keep out the noise of the news copters circling like vultures overhead.

Children are naturally curious and I do not believe in pruning back their horizons but in hindsight I should have been more circumspect to keep them away from the media circus. Sometimes we forget that children, even mine with their rough and tumble ways, are delicate blooms that need to be sheltered from the wind and the rain. The men in blue at the lake were not searching for some fool reveler drunk with champagne and fallen into its icy waters. They were looking for a body – a child's body.

I soon learnt as did the rest of Gotham that the girl they fished out was no nameless runaway. She had a name, a home – nicer than mine ever was - on the Lower East Side complete with a mother, a father and a dog called Billy. She disappeared 3 weeks ago while walking home alone from an apartment block on the East Side bordering the Park. She was there as she was every other day to work on a class project with her best friend from school.

They splashed a black and white photo of her on the front page of the Gotham Times – a delicate pretty girl looking up at you with a shy elfish grin. She was small for her age - perhaps that was why he took her – a bigger stronger child would have put up more of a struggle and attracted unwarranted attention. I don't know why, perhaps it was that seed of unease that had taken root in me, but I tore out the photo and kept it on my memory tree. My last thought that day as I watched the sun set from my perch high above the Park canopy was that she had such beautiful cornstalk eyes.

All that cruel and unusual season Gotham lived on tenterhooks, pulled along by an over zealous media intent on fanning the already rampant paranoia eating at the city until it took a black infectious consciousness of its own. Its was inescapable, no one could turn on the television, listen to the radio, walk down a street or pass a news stand without being assaulted on every side with pleas by tearful parents worried about their own broods, demands from child welfare groups that someone should do something, anything mingled with the baying from City Hall for the blood of the animal that did it.

I for my part kept my own close by on a tight leash; it was no longer safe for them to be out in the open after dark, not with the armed gangs of "vigilantes" now patrolling the Park eager to stake their names on a kill.

Even Gotham's finest led by our dear Commissioner Gordon leant their voices to the fray by issuing a public appeal for eyewitnesses to step forward. They surmise that the girl was waylaid somewhere along the 2 block route she normally took home by someone she knew either by sight or name. They reasoned that there was no motivation otherwise for the perpetuator to kill her if he was not known to her. Gotham's finest sometimes leave much to be desired. The body I saw fished out of the lake was bruised and battered beyond reason. I do not believe that whatever beast that did that needed additional motivation to drown her like a cat after he was done with her.

They did not know it then but she was only the latest of many. They found the others later one by one as the weather grew warmer and the lake slowly thawed out finally surrendering its secrets. He first started taking them off the streets in the winter, a string of little Jane and John Does, most of who will never be identified. No one in Gotham reports missing the forgotten children of neglectful and indifferent parents.

I suppose he was uncertain of his power then and the streets were full of easy prey. But he grew more confident over time and come spring he bloomed in his entire monstrosity. He decided he preferred the taste of other people's tender children better than their castaways.

It all seems so fresh in my mind, the memory of events of so many months back. It is now September and I am looking at the falling leaves through the skylights of my terrarium cell in Arkham. The children came to visit a few days ago, freshly scrubbed in their good clothes. All smiling faces, their arms full of fresh fruit and cheery hand made cards. We miss you they tell me in their many voices.

Dr Carver encourages them to come, she thinks their visits good therapy for my increasing depression, but I disagree – Arkham is no place for children – and their social worker agrees. Yet despite all her efforts, week after week for reasons I do not understand they sneak out from whatever foster home and homeless shelter the system has slotted them into and make the long journey by bus to Arkham.

This time round perhaps in recompense for my part in something which agrees even to their brutish sensibilities, my jailers have allowed me to keep the cards and the gifts of fruit.

Still I have given most of the fruit away. I have little desire to eat while I am placed on display here like some botanical curiosity and it would be a pity to waste such beautiful bounty. Fresh fruit is after all a gift meant to be enjoyed and I have no doubt that my fellow rouges will eat them all. The cards I have kept and stuck on the white floor of my cell. They are my connection to the sunlit world outside these four walls, outside Arkham.

I am lying on my back on the floor looking at the falling leave through the skylights of my cell when they announce the arrival of a visitor. I am first puzzled then curious. Is it the children? I wonder - I have a vague concept of time passing here, but for the skylights day and night would merge in this world of perpetual florescent - but it felt odd, it was too soon. They had just come a few days back and were not expected to visit again until much later.

I dutifully move away from the glass walls and onto the steel bunk which they have thoughtfully bolted down into the center of my prison. I smile as my jailers shuffled into the holding area each man single file equipped with an automatic weapon and a personal respirator. I wonder if they seriously believe Cavendish when he tells them that having their own air supply will protect them from me. The last man in line is holding a small folding chair. The chair is for the benefit of my visitor – she is tall and pale with a dark head. I cannot see her eyes; she has hidden them under a pair of black shades. Her nose is high and perfect as is her soft red sensual mouth turned up at the corners in a sardonic smile. Her clothes are casually nondescript – a pair of well worn leather pants topped with a black t-shirt and an overcoat – she manages to bring off the ensemble even if she does lack Selina Kyle's sense of chic. She wears nothing else that would allow me to identify her further. She is my colorless mystery visitor for the day.

Dr Arkham prohibits the press from visiting and I am sure I have not met her before but there is something uncannily familiar in those lips, that smile and in the way she carries herself; she moves like she's floating on air and then it strikes me who my visitor is.

She sits down on the proffered chair and smiles at me as the guards make their exit. They tell her she has ten minutes alone with me, but I know she knows they are lying. Everything I say and do in this place is recorded, analyzed, and studied. Oracle has an entire library devoted to each one of us – Joker, 2 Face, Penguin, Riddler – our likes, dislikes, loves and hatreds, all gleaned and harvested from the Arkham archives.

I return her smile but I do not move from my place in the centre of my cell. Her voice is strong, confident – pleasant not surly like our last meeting – she goes through the motions of asking me how I am. She tells me that she is my civilian sponsor under the Arkham rehabilitation program and that Carver has briefed her that I am not eating or sleeping well.

I turn my face and focus on the cards on the floor. Her gaze makes me weak, awkward, exposed, and I will not be put into such a position by someone like her. She senses my growing detachment and tries to reach out to me, but I have retreated back into the Green where she cannot hope to find me. She tries again, again and yet again – her voice never wavers but grows softer, gentler as she talks to me – but I do not wish to engage. Soon her time is up and the guards come back in single file to escort her out. She turns back once to look at me, our eyes meet, and she leaves. If she is disappointed with this meeting she does not show it.

I am alone again with my jumbled thoughts. I think she looks sad but I am not sure. I find that I am not sure of anything anymore – friends, foes, lovers, whores. Carver has been asking me about Harley, I have not seen her since we were brought in. Carver wants to know why Harley is angry at me, what she really means to ask is why Harley wants to kill me. I shrugged off the question. It is after all not the first time my friend has made known her intention to "murderise" me.

It is late at night, when I finally allow myself to remember. For me and many others it was the spring Gotham went mad. The little girl I saw fished out of the lake was not the last. There were two more victims that spring – another girl and then a boy – both under the age of ten and snatched out from under the watchful eyes of their parents. Both killed with the same modus operandi - battered within an inch of their lives and then drown in the lake in Robinson Park. The media dubbed him "The Water Baby Killer" but he was generally referred to in conversation as the Beast after the one in the Book of Revelations.

In private, the more superstitious among Gotham's finest called him a magician, a ghost and said that he could walk through walls to avoid detection and change his appearance to suit his purposes. The experts called in from Metropolis to help with the investigations were still unable despite the flood of eyewitness reports to compile a coherent description of the perpetuator. They only knew that he was male and of uncertain age. The best that the boys in blue could do in the meanwhile was to run up the usual suspects – sex offenders, known pedophiles – and shit on their rights while they wait for him to make a mistake. Waylon told me this one night by the waters edge; he had come up from the sewers that open under the lake. Most of the other rouges were keeping low profiles to avoid the public ire and Jervis for one was missing.

I have always liked Waylon; there was a kinship between us that I am hard to put into words. I think him beautiful with his yellow eyes and solemn smile. That night was no different from the many others we shared before – him and me talking softly by the water - but no, I am mistaken there were three of us that night. Harley was sulking in the shadows watching us.

Harley had come down to act as an extra pair of eyes and ears, the Park is a large place and even I cannot be everywhere at the same time. I was surprised by her interest. She never cared about the children; they were distractions as far as she was concerned, unnecessary competition for my attentions. My relationship with Harley is at best difficult, complicated by my romantic infatuation with her and made all the worse by her obsession with the Joker and her possessiveness of me. I have not seen her since we were hauled back to Arkham and I have no wish to see her.

It was Harley who spotted her first, that night after the boy was found. She was standing on a branch on a tree fronting the lake looking down at the spot where the first body was discovered. We shadowed her as she moved silently from site to site, seeming to float on air, visiting where the body of each victim was retrieved in chronological order. If she knew we were watching her she gave no hint and then as sudden as she had come she was gone.

She returned a few nights later, and as before we followed her. I knew who she was by sight and reputation but our paths had never crossed. To be honest I was expecting the Batman, the new one who goes around with the strange violent boy Robin, to come and demand that I tell him what he needed to know to catch the Beast. Robinson Park is after all my sphere of influence but I am not omnipotent. I did not expect her interest in the matter.

In my dreams, it always plays out the same. I shout out a warning but Harley doesn't hear. I watch as they run one after the other into a blind corner where the shadows are deepest. I know something is wrong as I follow into the thick sticky blackness where she – Batwoman – is waiting for me her lips curled up in that strange smile and I know I am alone and Harley is gone and at this realization I wake and find myself back in my terrarium cell in Arkham drenched in my own acidic sweat.

***

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	2. Poison Ivy 2

I am feeling ill. It is mid morning and my inability to sleep is painfully obvious. Carver tries to get me to talk about my dreams. I demure and she does not push me. She enquires whether I have made any progress on my theoretical research. I shake my head and she turns to look at the untouched pile of letters and documents stacked neatly on one side of my cell. She suddenly smiles and tells me I have a parcel. She puts a small slim book enclosed in a clear sterile plastic bag into my drop box. It is a volume of poems – Robert Frost – and enclosed within the pages someone has pressed a perfectly shaped maple leave like the ones I have been watching through the skylights of my cell. My eyes dart nervously from the leaf to Carver back to the leaf not comprehending its significance. Carver tells me it's a gift from Kate Kane my last visitor. I nod and close my eyes.

The second night she returned, we watched her – Harley and myself - from across the water as she inspected each drop site before disappearing yet again. I recall Harley yawning and grumbling in her usual way about wanting a triple espresso topped off with a gallon of whipped cream. I smiled indulgently and ran my fingers across her smooth cool cheek. There was nothing, almost nothing I would not do to make Harley happy. Then I heard it, that faint creak on a nearby branch. I turn and she is there half hidden in the shadows smiling at me.

I am intrigued, she is tall almost as tall as I am with long flowing red hair and white alabaster skin – we might have been twins but for those eyes – those dead white eyes. Harley makes to rush her but stops dead when I push her away and tell her to leave us – "I wish to speak to Batwoman alone. It is Batwoman isn't it?" – She nods and her smile inexplicably widens.

I move towards her to feel the leather of her mesh suit, it is similar to the one that Batman wears, the other Batman my old adversary not the one who wears the cowl now. I am not stupid; I make it my business to notice subtle differences in color and shape, to sort and catalogue. People are not so very much different from plants. Like I notice that she does not finch from me unlike the skinny Batgirl who covers her face. Harley has disappeared into the trees, but I know she is still close by I feel the stare of her little dagger eyes on me.

Embolden I make to touch those full red lips so much like mine, but she snatches my hand away. Her grip is firm, strong yet strangely like a caress. She pushes me up hard against the truck of a nearby tree; she means to frighten me but it is nothing Batman has not done to me before. I hear the sound of Harley slowly grinding her teeth in the background.

"Ivy, it is Ivy isn't it?" – She murmurs into my ear. Her hands are all over me, in all the wrong places. She wants to know now what I know about the killings. I am charmed, it is a long time since I have come across an opponent who believes she can physically intimidate and humiliate me. This time it is my turn to smile as I lean forward to stick the tip of my long wet tongue into her ear.

The trick unsettles her sufficiently for me to break free of her hold, but not completely. I feel her iron grip on my wrist harden as she jerks me back, she does not realize that I have no intention of running away. I push my face up close to hers, our lips almost touching and I remind her that – "I am Poison, Poison Ivy." – Before I kiss her full on her lips. She takes me into her mouth completely without complain and I return the favor as she kisses me back and runs her tongue deep into mine.

Carver wakes me from my daydream with a sharp knock on the glass wall of my cell. She is growing increasingly concerned about my mental wellbeing; she believes that I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Knock, Knock How do you treat a patient whose body chemistry is so messed up it precludes the use of psychotic drugs? You don't, you lock her up and throw away the key. Joker told me that joke once. He is a smarter man than most give him credit for.

But Dr Carver belongs to that school of psychiatry that believes in the holy grail of rehabilitation and so week after week she talks to me hoping against hope to find a soft spot in my emotional amour to drill down into what? I don't know and I don't care.

I am lying on my back on the floor of my cell, Dr Carver has left some time ago, it is starting to get dark and soon I will no longer be able to see the anything but a mess of inky blackness through the skylights. Some nights I look up and count the stars.

The book is under the bunk where I have kicked it. I have no use for Frost in Arkham. Harley has manipulated one of the janitorial staff into smuggling a letter to me. I have not seen him before, he looks new. I wonder what she traded in return but decide I don't want to know. Arkham floats on a layer of petty corruption and Harley can always get something on someone. It's her knack.

I open it up and its the usual drivel – she's sorry for what she's done, she'll do better next time, cross her heart and hope to die – punctuated with smiley faces and hearts and signed off with a string of noughts and crosses. I fold the letter up and put it away into my stack of papers. I am tired.

It is 3 nights later after our first meeting. She tells me as we keep watch over the waters that she is working on a case concerning an organization or cult – I was never too sure – called the Religion of Crime which has taken root in Gotham. We are alone; I have positioned Harley to stand as lookout at the far side of the lake. Harley has taken a violent dislike to her and she seems keen to return the bile.

She stands inappropriately close to me as she relates how each and every lead she has followed up has ended in a dead end. I tell her that is a politically incorrect use of the phase and she smiles. She suddenly pulls me roughly to her and tells me if I think this is all wrong too. I tell her she needs to jump into the lake to cool off. She licks her lips slowly and then releases me, backing into the shadows. She thinks herself a predator, but she is not use to having her lunch bite back in return.

She tells me from where she has hidden herself that she believes the killings are a series of initiation rituals for new members into one of their covens. I listened politely but give no indication that I agree with her. I don't believe he is an exotic import, I believe he is all home grown. There is something I need to show her to make her understand.

"Come, take my hand." – I tell her as I reach out into the thick sticky blackness where she is waiting – "There is something I want to show you." I feel the electricity between us as her hand quietly slips into mine. "Don't mind the vines." - I whisper as I draw her close – "They are the only way I travel."

We are at my memory tree; she seems surprise at all the data I have compiled in the mind map etched into the bark. I tell her that something as organized as a gang of killers would leave a larger crime footprint than our foe has so far. There would be some sort of trail no matter how faint; they would need to make arrangements for transport, lairs, food. Yet every lead she has followed has proven to be false. I believe that the killer is not many but one, someone invisible like a uniformed officer or a park guard, someone whom people don't notice because they are always there somewhere in the background.

She takes in what I say without a word and starts reading names, places, and dates. She works quickly, stopping only to clarify a point or correct an error. Soon she is finished and the mind map is complete. We have drawn out a tentative string which connects the victims to the Park.

She stands there for a long while silent. "We do good work together you and I." – She finally says in a hoarse whisper – "Why did you show me this?"

"Does it matter?" – I reply. "No." – She answers.

When I wake it is late and the sun is shining high in the sky. It is a beautiful day, one of those that call out for a picnic lunch out on a lawn pungent with the smell of grass. I lie on my back on the bunk for a little while longer to feel the warmth of the sun across my face and for a moment I forget that I miss days like these in Arkham.

My food tray has been deposited into the drop box. The menu is much the same every day, a bowl of steel-cut oats cooked with almond milk, 2 pieces of toast, and a serving of scrambled tofu - a complete meal with a tumbler of water and a glass of wheat juice. I take out a golden apple from the paper bag under my bunk and bite into it.

With the apple still in hand, I strip off my orange jumpsuit indifferent to the electric eye that monitors me 24/7 and step into the shower module attached to my cell. The water feels wonderfully cool on my hot skin. When I look up Harley is standing there watching me across the glass. I am not surprised; she must have pulled in a lot of favors to get access to my cell, but that is not beyond her.

"Heya, Red." – She smiles and waves at me – "I missed you. Heard from a little bird that you won't feeling well."

"Go away Harl." – I hiss as I turn my head away so I don't see her cry as she starts blubbering on cue - "Red, I'm sorry I'll do better next time."

I have forgotten how many times I have heard her say this, looked into those baby blues, and forgiven her and allowed her back into my life and my bed. Maybe too many times, I tell myself with the clarity of hindsight.

"Go away Harley, I don't want to see you again." – the words come easy out of my mouth like someone else is saying them – "I should have said this to you years ago and save Batwoman the trouble of having to haul my ass back to Arkham." She stops sniffling and stares unblinkingly at me; there is something different in my voice that frightens her. "Eh, okay Red, whatever you say. I'll come visit when you're feeling better." – She ventures stiffly trying to cover up the hurt in her voice with some fake sunshine. My back is turned to her when she leaves.

It is a week after we start watching the old abandon storage sheds that dot the bank of the lake that we see him. Harley is no longer with us, she has returned in a fit of pique back to the Joker. Her Mista J needs her she tells me as she packs her bag, she doesn't have time to stay out with me and my new best friend all night watching some stupid lake. I watch her leave without a word, my heart a hard heavy stone slowing descending into the pit of my stomach.

She is unusually tender with me, that night after Harley's departure. "Are you feeling okay?" – She asks more than once. I'm fine I reply without a thought as if Harley never mattered. She moves closer to me, I feel her breathe on my cheek. "You and Harley." – She begins and stops. I look down unwilling to meet her eyes. I am nothing to Harley I say silently to myself as I feel the humiliation burn inside me. I feel her hands working their way across my back, along my arms. "Friends." – I reply automatically – "We are nothing more than friends." – And I turn and I kiss her hard.

She kisses me back and we are a flurry of motion; hands, lips, tongues when she suddenly pulls away from me and the moment passes. She puts a finger to my lips and I turn my head towards the water to follow her gaze. I see him. He is walking slowly along the waters edge with a small bundle slung over his shoulders.

She is quick off the mark, flying through the trees. I follow behind; there is something familiar about him that makes me pull back. I have seen him before by the main entrance to the Park. I am sure, that rolling gait and the smell of his hand rolled cigarettes are unmistakable. He gives food to my children when he has extras at the end of the day – hot dogs. And then the rage hits me – that sonofabitch lures them into the park with his hot dogs, his free hot dogs.

My vines reach him before she does, he doesn't see them until it is too late. She makes a dive for the bundle before he hits the ground but it is not necessary, my vines are already tearing the burlap apart. "He's still breathing." – she tells me before she goes on to check on the small figure bound hand and foot that is lying very still on the ground.

I am watching from the trees when Gotham's finest comes sirens screaming into the Park. They find him hanging feet up in the air entangled in my vines; still breathing if only barely. She is long gone by then with the child, a little boy.

Harley's second letter comes later in the day via special delivery along with the regular mail dispatch. I set it aside unopened, before turning my attention to my other piece of mail. It is a plain unmarked envelop with no return address, inside is a Polaroid snap shot of the sunset over the trees in Robinson Park with the words – I'm Sorry – written in black marker on the back.

I look at it for a while; the shot was taken from my perch high in the tree top canopy, before putting the photo back into the envelope and setting it aside next to Harley's letter. I find it ironical that she and Harley are alike in so many ways.

***

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	3. Poison Ivy 3

"Pamela, you're doing better this week." - Dr Carver tells me with a kind smile. We have been talking all this past week and the week before about what happened that spring in the Park. "How did you feel, Pamela?" – Carver asks her eyes bright and intense. "Helpless, hopeless and..." – I start but cannot continue. Carver leans closer her eyes never leaving my face – "Try Pamela, it is important that you try to vocalize your feelings."

"What I feel?" – I ask with a bemused air – "You know what I feel, Dr Carver. I feel angry."

"Why are you angry, Pamela?" – Carver is quick to pick up on my unintended slip; she is good at what she does maybe too good and that's why even Aaron Carter that glorified thug with the big night stick worships her - "Why are you angry Pamela? Pamela?"

I am Pamela here, never Ivy, or Isley. Here we are a merry bunch of people living in the eternal present with no past and no foreseeable future; Eddie, Harleen, Harvey, Jonathan, and Waylon.

I miss Waylon.

Waylon and I are swimming together in our secret place at the lake. Laughing talking, I am feeling on top of the world as my friend tells me - "Pam my girl, you are the toast of Gotham." His wonderful eyes narrow with glee as he relates how Internal Affairs is now tearing the Police Department apart as photos of Gotham's finest associating with the suspect hit the front pages of the news dailies - "Seems your guy sponsored the hot dogs for their last May Day picnic, heard that they even got a photo of that Bullock making a pig of himself." – Waylon guffaws loudly unable to contain himself any longer.

Conspiracy theories breed like rabbits in Gotham. Waylon tells me that public opinion is now so much in my favor that a group of concerned citizens who call themselves "Friends of Gotham" has petitioned City Hall to apologize for their part in evicting me - their avowed guardian of Robinson Park - so many years ago after the Gotham quake during which I fed the city from my beautiful hanging gardens.

"This goddam city kills me, people would rather take their chances with a freak like you and me than your average beat cop." – Waylon continues with tears in his eyes – "You know why? At least we freaks is honest. You can't buy us off with a wiener or a pair of pantyhose."

I have no interest in human affairs no matter how stupid and I tell him so - "I only want it to be like this always, Waylon, to be free to be ourselves away from prying human eyes." Waylon who is worldlier than I am tells me that he loves me for the fact that I am a dreamer and I laugh. Waylon loves making me laugh.

"You're happier without clown girl." – He tells me with a wink as we splash in the cold water. I nod and say nothing. Harley is still with the Joker. She has made some furtive attempts over the past weeks to get back with me again but somehow unlike the other times I am cool to the idea and I tell her I need some "me" time and leave things as they are.

Suddenly Waylon grins in a stiff funny way, his eyes darting upwards towards a nearby tree whose branches reach out over the water, this is his cue to me that we have unwanted visitors. Without a word, we both dive down deep into the dark water where we wait under the overhang. One minute, two and three, until we see a shape come up above us and using the momentum of his powerful tail Waylon churns the water and breaks through the surface of the lake in a long graceful leap his razor jaws wide and ready.

I follow in his wake making it from the water into the safety of the trees in one smooth sweep just in time to see her jump away from Waylon's gaping maw onto the wooded bank and disappear.

Waylon likewise has disappeared back into the water but I know he is still lurking nearby waiting for a second try at a taste of bat. He would never willingly abandon me to my own devices; it's the gentlemen in him. Likewise I would never wish to entangle a good friend in whatever business has brought her back to here and so I speak to him through the language of the Green and tell him to flee back to the sewers where he is safe. It would be better if he was not around, there is something I cannot define which lingers unresolved between the two of us.

It is almost 4 weeks since I last saw her. I thought she had forgotten and to be honest I had other things on my mind but she is waiting when I return to my perch in the tree top canopy.

"Enjoy your swim?" - She hisses, her manner is surly abrupt unpleasant. "What do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" - I am calm but wary of this worn strained tension between her and me which stretches like piano wire and cuts us both.

"I came to see how you were but obviously you can take care of yourself." - She continues in the same brittle biting manner - "I didn't know Killer Croc was your type too? Or don't you need a type?"

"He is a friend." - I answer. "Like Harley is a friend?" - She completes my sentence before I can finish. "No." - I say. "Because Harley is different?" - I feel my cheeks burning as she mocks me - "Because Harley is special?"

"What do you want?" - I am sick of her petty insinuations; she is pushing me again testing me to see how far she can go before I lose my game - "Let me guess you want to know if I miss you as much as you miss me."

She looks away and I laugh in my smooth sultry way as I play the bitch slut she wants me so much to be. I tell her that she is nothing to me, after all no man or woman can resist me. "What you feel is what I want you to feel. I kissed you the first time because I needed you to trust me." - I tell her in a sweet honeyed voice - "And I kissed you again the second time because I wanted the attention."

"You're beautiful when you're lying." - She comes up close, too close for my liking. I am sick of her and her mind games yet I cannot take my eyes off her - "I'm a big girl I've had my shots." Her voice is thick smooth and drips almost like liquid velvet.

"The shots don't make you immune to me." - I find myself smiling despite my growing anger and bewilderment - "The shots just dampen the impact."

"What impact?" - She sneers as she presses her body up against mine. I can hardly breathe; the feel of her touch on my skin is as exquisite as the pressure of her body hard next to mine. "This impact." - I say as I brush my lips up against hers and give her what she so badly wants from me.

I pause before going in for the kill - "Why shouldn't I be angry, Dr Carver? Is it wrong for me to be angry when a man kills children to satisfy his own desires?" - It is a rhetorical trick I picked up from 2 Face some time back. He called it a cheap lawyer's parlor fancy. I've always like Harvey Dent and 2 Face has always liked me in that carnal animal way of his. Unfortunately for them I am not into threesomes.

Carver believes I may be suffering from some resident post traumatic stress disorder that manifest itself in an out pouring of violent suppressed rage when triggered. "You want to save the world Pamela." – She cites me softly – "That's good but you want to do it now and you want to do it your way."

"That's what Batman does." – I remind her – "But you don't lock him up in a 4 by 4 glass box and throw away the key."

But that is how the world is, isn't it. Different strokes for different folks. The children are not visiting me this week; the bus which makes its way up to Arkham is out of service. But otherwise life here has improved singularly for me.

In return for my interest and continued cooperation in my journey towards rehabilitation, they release me an hour each day from my terrarium cell into the holding area. It feels like heaven to be able to stretch out the tightness in my leg muscles, to walk and run without getting a face full of glass.

Harley writes regularly her letters full of sunshine and gossip, she tells me that I am still her best friend and can't understand why I don't want to see her. Sometimes I wonder if she actually truly cares for me in some way deep down inside that twisted psyche of hers, but I don't believe that. It would be like all the other times all over again and that would be so disappointing to Dr Carver.

Carver tells me Kate is coming for a visit and she hopes I can build a rapport with her. Carver believes it is critical to my chances for rehabilitation that I have positive supportive relationships. Kate is very interested in your case – Carver tells me with renewed enthusiasm – She really wants to help if you let her.

We are standing together in my tree top perch at the Park, looking down at my hanging gardens. "They're beautiful."– She tells me and I smile. "I grew those years ago." – I tell her as if it happened to another person in another life – "They were to feed Gotham after the quake."

"I remember biting into one of your apples" – She smiles as she recalls the taste of it. "It was..." – She starts and then pauses a long while. I look up at her and she gently cups my face with her hands. "Wonderful."– She says as she brings my face to hers – "Wonderful."

I turn and twist myself out of her grasp. My mind is a twirl of confused conflicted thoughts. "Clayface hurt you didn't he." – She whispers as she wraps her arms around me - "I won't hurt you." I am afraid suddenly very very afraid and in my fear and pain I lash out like always.

"You just want to use me." - I spit in disgust as I push her away from me – "You pretend to understand, pretend to help. You tell me you want to save me. All you want to do is abuse, humiliate, and lock me away." My voice is shrill, hard, accusing. I make to rank her face with my nails, but her arms hold me tight until the screaming and the kicking stops and all I can hear is the sound of someone slowly grinding their teeth together as I desperately kiss her again and again and again.

"Pamela!" - Craver calls me gently but firmly back to the present she notices that I have been drifting off lately lost in my own daydreams – "Is there something troubling you? Do you want to tell me about it?" I smile and tell her that Harley has a bad habit of grinding her teeth. "Does she do it often?" – Carver asks curious as to this strange turn in our conversation. "Only when she's angry." - I reply as I turn my head upwards to look at the falling leaves through the skylights of my terrarium cell – "Only when she doesn't get her own way."

Harley comes by one night when I am tendering my hanging gardens. "Heya Red." - She calls out to me as she turns a pretty somersault onto a nearby branch – "You miss me?"

"Harl, you look well." – I reply strangely at a loss of words to greet my best friend. "Well, yah of course." – She laughs – "I can take care of myself you know."

"I miss you." – She pouts as she settles herself down on the branch - "Word is you and Bats-woman are pretty chummy now." I flash her a brilliant smile in way of reply but say nothing. I wonder how much Harley knows and what she wants from me in exchange to be left alone. Harley has taken almost everything precious from me over the years; my sense of self, my dignity, my peace of mind and flushed it all down the drain for her Puddin. It's true what they say, you really don't know someone well until you're loved and hated them in turns.

She mistakes my silence as a change of heart and she starts doing what she always does to me - "Red, you and me we go back a long ways together and yah I know you hate my guts but you're still my best friend and I figure in many ways I'm your best friend too and I was thinking maybe you know I could come back and stay with you for a while. Pretty please, thing aren't so good for me with Puddin and I'm kinda hoping..." – She ends her speech in a breathless rush and looks at me with those puppy dog eyes.

It is a wonderful finish to a wonder heart warming scene and once upon a time I would have jumped at the opportunity of having her back but I feel differently now. I tell her maybe Jonathan can help her out if she needs a place to crash for a while. Jonathan I remind her has always been very fond of her and she would know she was with friends. She is still sitting on the branch when I walk away, silent for once except for the sound of her gashing and grinding teeth.

I was naïve to think that I could brush Harley off that easily; I underestimated her. One more painful lesson I have had to learn in life, never under estimate beautiful women especially those who know you too well.

The robberies were a stroke of genius; the targets were perfect, so perfect I couldn't have picked them better myself. The victims were male, wealthy and dealt in exotic flora harvested illegally from wetland reserves and plant sanctuaries.

The violence of the attacks was shocking of course, one had his face beaten beyond recognition, another lost the use of his legs. No valuables were taken only cash from the safe and millions of dollars of rare irreplaceable plants. Violence is wrong but so is being ripped from your home and transported without sunlight and water in overcrowded filthy plastic crates across hundreds of thousands of miles to be sold as a trophy. Plants scream when they are uprooted, they cry when they are thirsty and men that trade in pain and misery are nothing more than scum.

***

Please leave a review. Continue in Chapter 4

** Author's Note

I have decided to add a short author's note to what is more or less the mid-point of the plot.  
- First off I would like to thank the people who have written reviews for this ongoing story - Harley-Cat and Squirrel - you're the best.  
- Second off I would like to say to all my detractors, yes I write nothing but slash, but good slash like good fluff like good cheesecake is an art which very few people do right because its bloody difficult. And if you don't understand my stories get yourself a bleeding dictionary your vocabulary stinks.  
- Third off "Happy News Years to all ye bums out in fanfic land" or so they say in NY.


	4. Poison Ivy 4

"Here ya go ya lucky ducky, clown girl's mooning big time for ya." – The man leers as he dumps my food tray and the ubiquitous pink envelope into my drop box – "An I can see why she's creaming herself over ya baby, you're a fucking wanking wet dream." He stands outside my glass cell panting at me with his tongue hanging out like some dirty lewd over grown german shepherd dog. I smile sweetly at him and watch him slowly melt away.

Men. A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle; Irina Dunn.

I can see that he's new, his name tag still has "Leonard" stuck on it. Someone took care of Leonard a month ago; he got in between too many things that grease the wheels on which Arkham turns. Leonard was according to whomever you happen to speak to either too honest or too stupid or too greedy. I know because Victor Freeze and I spoke about him some time go. We talk a great deal in Arkham; Victor and me. There's really nothing else interesting to do to pass the hours while in solitary confinement so we talk through the pipes that connect our cells, he taps taps taps and I tap back.

Gotham really is just Arkham writ large, the same dramas, needs, wants, hurts and loves are all played out there as they are here; Victor's words. He's actually quite astute and on days when he's feeling better we pass the time pleasantly discussing our experimental research and how expensive it is to pursue our individual interests. Victor Freeze when he's not clinical depressive is a genuinely sweet man totally unlike the neanderthal lurking on the other side of the glass who is now enthusiastically fondling himself.

The new guy loiters in my holding area leering at me unwilling to leave until the guards file in muttering obscenities under their breathe and roughly haul him out by the collar of his overalls. Sometimes I get the distinct feeling that my jailers dislike spending more time than necessary in my presence. Not that I like the unwanted attention, I can see that we are going to have problems with the new guy but life gets dull without its guilty little pleasures. I blow a kiss to the electronic eye and walk over slowly to the drop box. Its Mexican night and that means stone cold refried bean burrito and rice. Oh joy.

Leaving my food to slowly coagulate in the drop box, I lie on my bunk and stare upwards at the skylights that frame my glass prison. I'm feeling strangely excited tonight. There's something in the air, an electricity that fairly crackles on my skin. I've been thinking about her.

Then I hear the faint familiar tap - long, short, long - Victor is up late tonight, I wonder what it is. I tap back – long, short - twice to signal the all clear, and in reply he fires back a series of rapid fire long short beats.

Jonathan it seems is back in Arkham again after a long while away and has an interesting proposition for old friends. I frown and volley back a series of taps - "Jonathan is close to Harley and I am loath to work with him if it means coming back into contact with her."

"Harley is your friend." - Victor taps back - "Why do you suddenly dislike her so much?"

"Harley." - I tap - "Is nobody's friend least of all mine."

"And what about that Batwoman?" - Victor taps - "Is she your friend?"

She is with me that night by the hanging tree near the lake when the Batman visits with the boy. The man behind the cowl is different but I knew him for many years under different names and guises. It is comforting in a way not to have to deal with a complete stranger. The boy however is new and unusually menacing for someone so young. I will have to keep an eye out for him.

We were talking, her hands locked into mine. He stands there for a while looking at us from the shadows. He seems surprise to see her even more so at how close she is to me as if to wanting in some way to shield me from his sight.

I had thought that Oracle would have prepared him better, after all the underground has been rift with rumors for weeks, but it seems he is the last to know. He (is) was infatuated with Batwoman (still) once, perhaps Oracle wants him to learn how painful it is to love someone yet know you can never be with them. I knew Oracle well a long time ago when she was a girl, before the madness over took her life, but we all pay a price for the roads we take.

"Did you expect him?" - I whisper into her ear. She shakes her head slightly with a frown. She is torn between letting go and stepping back or holding on and staying. It is clear that what business brings him to Robinson Park is no concern of hers, but a part of her jealously wants to know what business the Batman has with me, yet she is one of the Batman's allies and she does not want to rock the delicate balance of things between them. I make the decision myself as I smile and call out a greeting to the new man in the cowl with wide open arms - "Long time no see, lover."

He and the boy have come to speak to me about a series of violent seemingly senseless attacks on the scions of Gotham's oldest and most respected families. The victims were all male, independently wealthy and each were savagely beaten and left for dead in their own homes. No valuables were reported taken except for cash taken from a wall safe and a wallet.

"This is not my business." – I tell him insulted that he thinks I would be involved in petty housebreaking. There is a flippant arrogance in his manner which I dislike. "You knew all of them professionally." – He answers coldly, seeing her with me disturbs him – "They all dealt in endangered flora for a price."

"This is Gotham." - I remind him - "Everything can be had here for a price."

"Even the last wild thorny rose?" - He asks with a smile.

"You know I can never sell her." - I reply in a faraway voice - "She is family to me." His question unsettles me more than I dare let on. Only one other person knows where I resettled the wild thorny rose, and that person knows me too well to be trusted.

His smile widens as he relates how a mystery seller is setting the private world of exotic botanical collectors ablaze by offering interested parties an opportunity to own a specimen of the wild thorny rose. The seller by all eye witness accounts provided by parties that have been approached is an attractive woman with red hair and a deep captivating voice; a woman who when challenged gives a fresh leaf taken from the plant to each potential bidder as proof of her good intentions. DNA strands taken from the leaves were unmistakable.

"I am not stupid. Do you expect me to believe a story like that?" - I snap as my vines swiftly move to intercept the boy as he launches a sudden unprovoked attack from my left rear blind side. The boy has not learnt that my visual senses are not human, I smell the air like plants do and although his speed and reaction times are superior, they are nothing compared to my control of flora. Here in Robinson Park I am a deity, I only need to think it and it is done.

The boy unfortunately is only a distraction as the Batman swiftly takes something from his belt and sprays it into the air. It is a potent herbicide and as I inhale the droplets they burn my lungs, the last vestige of my human anatomy and I gag. How ironical I have poisons swirling in my blood that are lethal to every man, woman and child in Gotham but no resistance to RC Sixty. She is there to catch me when I fall.

What ensures after is the equivalent of a Mexican standoff, my vines tighten their hold on his boy causing the child to retch and gag while he stands between her and the water I need to clear my congested lungs. They stand and look at each other for what seems like an eternity and then inexplicably he moves aside to throw a batarang at my vines and she makes a dash for the water's edge.

The next sound I hear is my own whimpering as I painfully attempt to cough out the contaminants from my lungs. My head is swimming and I am unable to focus my thoughts. He has hit me where it matters. My control over flora now impaired, I have no choice but to make peace. Although she stands behind me covering my back I know she is no match for the both of them together. It is time to talk and I need them to understand that I had no part in the attacks. I stand on my jelly legs and push past her to face them.

"That was unnecessary." - I hiss my voice sore and hoarse - "I do not need to attack anyone much less men for spare change and it is common knowledge in Gotham that I have a specimen of the wild thorny rose. If anyone wanted to even a score with one of the victims I would be the perfect fall guy."

"That's what you want us to think, witch." - The boy shouts back, he has recovered his senses along with his uncivil tongue - "You set this up to give yourself an alibi. You and the stupid bat bitch sicken me. Where are the plants now!"

"Plants? What plants?" - Her question is pointedly directed at the Batman without a glance at the boy. "The focus of the robberies were millions of dollars of exotic flora taken from the private green rooms of the victims." - He explains as if speaking to an idiot child of his - "Plants with missing or doubtful certificate of origins."

"Plants that their owners can never report stolen." - She says softly completing his sentence for him. She pauses a while as if to consider this new facet of information before shaking her head - "But Ivy has a point. If the motive is robbery why did she need to attack them? All she had to do was smile and they would have willingly given her the plants and anything else she wanted. They were men. If the motive was not robbery but pay back and if she knew them, why did she have to lure them into a trap with the wild thorny rose?"

"If I wanted to kill them." - I add - "They would all be long dead already. I did know them and I knew them well" - I continue ignoring the burning sensation in my chest getting increasingly worse with each breathe I take - "We came to a mutual understanding a long time ago. I knew what they did and they knew how I felt about it, in exchange for acting as my contacts to the illicit trade in endangered flora I left them alone to pursue their interests so long as they did not conflict with mine."

"Do you really believe Ivy didn't do it?" - His question now sharply directed at her. "I know she didn't do it." - She replies confidently - "She didn't have the chance." He makes to clarify her last statement but thinks the better of it. "I haven't left Robinson Park." - I answer by way of reply to what he is thinking - "I haven't left for a long time, ask around."

"I will." - He answers and adds the proviso - "I'll be watching." - Before disappearing back into the shadows. The boy glares back at me one last time before following. I should have snapped his neck when I had the chance.

"Pamela?" - Victor taps - "Pamela?"

"Sorry Victor. I was lost in my thoughts. She cares." - I tap back to Victor - "For some reason she cares."

"It is nice." - Victor taps back - "When someone cares about you." I can almost hear the wistfulness in his voice. "Why do you ask?" - I tap. "Because..." - he taps - "I have to be able to trust you."

"Are you okay?" - I can hear the strain in her voice. She is concerned. "Are they really gone?" - I ask weakly, I am racked again by another coughing fit in as many minutes. "Yes." - She replies - "I checked. They left hours ago. The Park is clear."

"Good." - I say as I struggle back onto my feet - "I need to see that the rose is safe." She nods but does not say anything. It is obvious to her that I am not well. The RC Sixty is now entrenched in my system; I can feel it burning in my veins, in my lungs, in my eyes.

Each breath I take is an agony which I cannot describe. It will take days before I am able to expel it from my body and detoxify myself but I do not have the luxury of time. I need to see that the rose is safe now. She is the last of her kind and if Harley has done something stupid to my rose to get back at me, I swear I will hunt that harlequin down and skin her alive.

I stand and take 3 steps before stumbling. My legs are useless, lead weights pulling me down. I start pulling myself along with my hands. I will reach my rose even if it means crawling on my hands and knees. I failed her once; I will not fail her again.

I feel arms wrap themselves around me and lift me off my feet. I make to push those arms away but to no avail. She picks me up and shakes me like I was nothing more than a new born mewing kitten; small, helpless and lost, and at that instance I hate her. I hate her like I hate my self absorbed mother, my perpetually absent father, my naive deluded boyfriend, hate every person who has ever love me.

Hissing spitting I strike at her eyes with my poisonous nails, but she is undeterred. She is besotted with me. "Trust me." - She says as she cradles this pain crazed monster I have become harder into her arms - "Why can't you trust me?"

"Pamela? Are you angry?" - He taps. "Why this sudden lack of faith? Victor." - I tap. His last comment has stung me. "Forgive me, Pamela." - He taps - "Tell me something?"

"Yes, Victor" - I tap. "Who do you love? Pamela" - He taps - "Tell me who do you love?"

"What a funny question? Victor." - I tap - "I love her of course. I love my wild thorny rose."

"This is the Pamela Isley I know and trust." - He taps back and I laugh. Victor Freeze is a difficult man to understand at times.

I should never have given her coordinates to the rose. In hindsight I should have known better. But I am not omnipotent and we all pay a price for the roads we chose to travel and the company we keep. To her credit, she did carry me, dead weight as I was, to the secret garden within Robinson Park where I hid the wild thorny rose, and it was I who pointed out the hidden entrance to her and it was I who insisted on walking in myself unaided. What else could she do but follow.

***

Please leave a review. Continue in Chapter 5

This chapter is dedicated to Harley-Cat, Squirrel, AZ-Woodbomb, Sunflare2k5 and Jack White for their time and their generosity.


	5. Poison Ivy 5

_Some say the world will end in fire;  
__Some say in ice.  
__From what I've tasted of desire  
__I hold with those who favor fire.  
__~ Fire and Ice, Robert Frost_

I am quietly reading when they tell me I have a visitor. I blink and wonder what day or week it is, I am not expecting anyone. The children have not visited for some time, there is still no bus out to Arkham and service is not expected to resume soon. They write me in the meanwhile, becoming my eyes and ears, telling me how my hanging gardens fair this late in the fall and how sweet the marina di chioggia taste this year grilled with olive oil on rosemary stalks. A part of me misses them along with the familiar sights, sounds and smells that chilly autumn nights bring to Robinson Park.

The other part of me is wondering if I will see her again. I have been thinking about her strange as it sounds, maybe I am more human than plant after all. Human enough to surprise Dr Arkham yesterday with a request that I be permitted to write to my sponsor, a thank you note for the book I say to Arkham's astonished face to Dr Carver's delight.

Anne Carver is very excited that I have expressed an outward interest in establishing contact with another person who isn't likewise incarcerated in Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. I have these few months become a model prisoner of sorts. She is writing a paper on my steps towards rehabilitation and perhaps there will be material left over for a very profitable book.

I have become a bigger celebrity since my alleged involvement in the vicious attacks on certain persons deemed untouchable because of money and influence, despite their illegal interests. A poster girl for the people movement in the streets that has latched onto my "crusade" as evidence of the indifference and corruption that infests the Gotham PD. Waylon I believe is having a field day wherever he is, I can almost hear him say – "Pam girl, one day they are going to unveil a statue to you in Robinson Park and its going to say 'Pamela Lillian Isley, Friend of Gotham'." He was always one to thrive on pathos.

The disembodied electronic voice repeats its instructions for me to stand away from the glass. As always I obediently move away from the walls of my terrarium cell following the instructions given to the letter. Satisfied with my compliance, the voice gives the all clear while I settle down on my steel bunk to dispassionately watch the morning's proceedings unfold. The drill is much the same; the guards file in one by one each man armed to the teeth with the last man holding the small plastic folding chair for my guest.

She enters the holding area and I can see that she has lost some weight; her cheeks have hollowed out giving her a sharper more feral look. The nose is as perfect as ever and so are her lips. I suddenly feel a pang of longing to touch her face, to run my fingers down that nose and across those lush lips.

She smiles like she is happy to see me; I smile back wistful and confused. I have no idea why she is here; the thank you note is still on my floor unwritten. Dr Arkham is sleeping on my request.

She is not empty handed, she has with her some mixed fruit, oranges, and another book, all carefully bagged into clear sterile plastic, and sealed. My jailers of course will check that the bags are inspected and cleared for unauthorized foreign matter and the seals intact before directly her to place them into my drop box. She complies without a fuss and they tell her she has 10 minutes to speak to me alone before shuffling off single file.

We are finally alone with only the buzzing of the electronic eye that constantly sweeps my cell a stark reminder to otherwise.

"Don't you ever change your clothes?" – I ask curious. She is dressed in the same old ensemble of leather pants, black tee and overcoat. "Do you?" – She throws the question back at me as she takes off her black shades. "Do I what?" - I deadpan, privately fascinated with her smiling brown eyes so unlike those of her other self. "Do you wear clothes?" - She smiles as she says this. "Why would I?" - I reply as I lean forward to look at her full in the face – "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." Her smile widens as my eyes meet hers.

I can see that whilst we complement each other in the night with our height, our pallor, and the striking color of our eyes and hair, we are a strange contrast in the day, her shortish dark head, and eyes so different from my long auburn tresses and emerald greens. But then opposites have always attracted.

I wonder how it would feel like to ruffle that indifferent head and run my fingers through that waifish hair. But I find that I am not the only one indulging in private fantasies as I catch her mentally undressing me and taking me in slowly inch by inch from crotch to sternum with hot furtive glances.

"What did you bring me?" – I ask as I fake interest in the contents of my drop box to hide the beginnings of a blush. She has that effect on me that Harley used to have once upon a time; bugs under my skin it feels like. I haven't thought about Harley in a while, not in a way I use to, not had the compulsion to do something, anything to make her smile with happiness at least for a while. Happiness is fleeting with Harley, little snatches of sunshine made more ominous by their beauty before the storm clouds roll in, before she decides that I am not good enough anymore. But then when am I ever good enough to compare to her Puddin.

"Some things I thought you might like. Do you like dried fruit? I have golden raisins, cranberries, currants, apricots and peaches." – She looks surprised that I would be interested in her little offerings – "Dr Carver tells me you're not eating again."

"I don't like almond milk and refried beans. I don't like Arkham." – I reply as I open up the bag and take out a soft dried cranberry – "But I like cranberries." She smiles as she watches me slowly bite into the small round red morsel of fruit, so wonderfully tart and moist. I wonder why she cares so much whether I eat when I don't.

"What else?" – I ask as I picked up another bag. "Do you like oranges?" – She asks. Her manner is casual, polite, unhurried but there is something in the way she looks at me, not in that pathetic lost puppy dog way that Harley excels at, but with a sadness so tangible that I am compel to reach out and touch it. I catch myself before my fingers make contact with the glass.

"I'm not supposed to touch the glass when I have visitors." – I murmur by way of an explanation as I recoil from her questioning glance, suddenly embarrassed by my own sentimentally.

"Did you like Robert Frost?" – She changes the subject as if just now never happened, her face transformed into a blank unreadable mask. She and Harley have the ability to cover themselves up so tight that nothing gets out, not a tear or a whimper that is not planned or wanted or needed. I envy them that ability to flatten and smoothen out all their emotional kinks into a single constant flat line. I on the other hand exist as a contrary mess of peculiar contradictions, passions, hatreds, and misguided loyalties.

What I should have done that night was let Harley face the consequences of her actions; instead I protected her like always, stood between her and whatever hell she done and borne the brunt of it. Perhaps it was the nature of the place. I created that garden a long time ago for Harley as much as for the wild thorny rose. I envisioned it to be our private place safe from unwanted intrusions, a place for me and Harley to be alone; our secret rose garden. But we never had a chance; I should have known better, it wasn't something Harley wanted.

Harley is waiting for me that night among the roses. The wild thorny rose was alone so I gave her babies. I grew each one myself from cuttings taken from the original plant; it took me years to nurture the garden, cutting by cutting until I had a spiral of miniature rose bushes radiating out from their mother like rays of sunlight. I swear to all that is unholy that I'll kill Harley myself if she's meddled with any of them.

Harley smiles when she sees me, then frowns in a split second when she notices that my eyes are glazed over and I am stumbling like a dead drunk. She sprints over and watches me with a wary eye.

"Red, you're hurt?" - It comes out more a question than a statement. "Harley, what did you do?" - I scream as I grab her by the collar of her skin tight bodysuit and fastening my talons onto her neck, slam her into the ground – "If you so ever hurt her or one of her babies I'll …"

She doesn't even flinch. We have done this over and over too many times, its foreplay to her; the bitter accusations, the angry violent outburst. She'll let me rant and rave until there is nothing left but a broken emptiness inside and then she'll quietly whisper in my ear, run her fingers through my hair, nuzzle my neck, and ask me to let her make it up to me, make things better. And afterwards everything will be just the same again, Harvey and Ivy like always.

"Huh, Red can we talk about this later" – she chokes as she tries to ply my fingers off her throat. She is strangely coy with me today, no puppy dog eyed flirtations as I threat to throttle the life out of her – "We have company."

"It's beautiful" – She tells me as I let go off Harley who happily scrambles away with a wild mad gleam in her eye – "I never expected this. You planted the wild thorny rose in a secret rose garden in Robinson Park."

I suppose I should have realized that she'll follow me through the hidden entrance into the arbor. She would never have willingly let me out of her sight, despite my insistence that she go away, my screaming at her to leave me alone. After all she carried me the equivalent of 30 odd city blocks across Robinson Park to reach here, why would she abandon me now. In my pain addled brain, I led her straight to Harley. This was my first mistake.

"What's it to ya, Bats-woman!!!" – Harley yells as she executes an almost perfect back flip which misses Her by a hair, but She doesn't miss and Harley is swiftly grounded the wind punched out of her.

"Harley." – I say as I reach out to her. But Harley doesn't see or hear me. This isn't about me, it's about her and her need for me to always be there for her no matter what she says, or does. This is pay back for me having the nerve to try to walk out on her. "See Red, they're all the same." – Harley starts blabbering her eyes filling with tears for my benefit – "You can't trust them; they'll use ya and hurt ya and then you'll see I was right, you'll see."

"The break-ins and the attacks, it was you dressed up as Ivy." – She is standing with her back to me, her dead white eyes focused like intense pin points of light at the harlequin that has fallen on the ground like a broken toy – "Why?"

"Because." – The toy screams in Harley's voice – "She forgot about me. It's always someone else this or somebody else that but what about Harley!!! What about me!!! Everyone forgets about me!!! You don't forget about me!!!"

I stand and watch the hurt and fury come out of a broken thing that I've tendered and nurture over the years like so many neglected and abandoned plants, and feel a pang of remorse. I never wanted this to happen. I should have known better, should have realized that she is as incapable of understanding the significance of her actions as my roses are. This was my second mistake.

"Let her go." – I say as I force myself back onto my feet. I am a giant perched on mosquito legs. She slowly turns and faces me – "What did you say?"

"I said let her go." – I reply meeting her stare head on. "You're sick, you can't fight me." – She says it like it was a matter of fact. "I can try." – I say – "Or …."

I never got a chance to finish my sentence. Harley suddenly jumps up and launches a barrage of kicks at Her head, She dodges them effortlessly and jumps back luring Harley into position before following through with a well timed blow to the head. I hear her fist connect with Harley's jaw and the sickening click as Harley's neck snaps backwards and then it is over. Harley is lying motionless on the ground, still breathing but otherwise dead to the world.

"You didn't have to hit her that hard." – I say with a frown – "You know she isn't a match for you." Harley is strong and fast but I know that stronger and faster opponents have fallen to superior training and vicious focus.

"Do you want to fight me as well?" – She sneers as she kicks Harley onto her stomach so she doesn't chock on her own vomit. "I will if I have to." – I add – "Or you could choose."

"Choose?" – She asks. She is looking straight at me with her dead white eyes. "Let both of us go." – I reply with a smile – "Or take both of us in."

"They will never believe you didn't do it." – She says slowly – "They're lock you back up in Arkham."

"Yes." – I say – "I know. Now choose."

This was my third mistake. Three strikes and you're out.

"I like Huntress" – She looks at me in surprise as I continue – "Well, if you are going to change the subject. We might as well talk about something I like."

"You like Huntress" – She asks wondering where this line of conversation is heading – "Why do you like Huntress?"

"Why? She's hot." – I reply as I move off my steel bunk. "You think she's hot." – She repeats again. "Do you think I'm her type?" – I say as I move closer to the glass wall of my cell and slowly unzip my jumpsuit down to my naval.

"I think you're too creepy for her." – She replies with that strange familiar sardonic smile as her eyes travel downwards savoring the sights – "What about Batwoman? I heard she's hot."

"Not my type." – I reply as I suck my fingers and gently rest them on the glass – "Too creepy for me." She smiles wider showing me an expanse of small white teeth.

"I…." – she starts and then stops. There is a catch in her voice. "I understand." – I reply as she slowly reaches out to me her fingers mirroring mine on the glass for a moment before the alarm sounds and all hell breaks loose.

***

Please leave a review. Continue in Chapter 6


	6. Poison Ivy 6

Victor is curious – "Why did you do it? I don't quite understand but Jonathan of course sends his love." - I can almost see the smile on his gaunt pale face – "He loves it when you give Dr Arkham ulcers." I laugh and tap back a series of rapid long, short beats in reply - "Things are never logical with me, Victor. You of all people should know that."

Victor Freeze is the last of the romantics, a man who is willing to do anything to prove his undying love to a woman even turn himself into a walking block of ice, but I do not need him to understand why I breached security protocol other than it was my prerogative. She is my guilty pleasure and one I intend to keep to myself.

There is of course a price for my actions which Dr Arkham will extract from me in kind over the long days. As expected he has suspended my visitation rights indefinitely and mandated over Dr Carver's objections that I be kept in my cell 24/7 until all investigations detailing the cause of the breach are completed. My sponsor has likewise been blacklisted and will no longer be permitted to visit Arkham. But other than the fuss, life here continues along the same old same old routines of life, death, and insanity.

"How soon?" – I tap – "Has he indicated a time? A day? Why the delay?"

"No, but soon he says and to be ready." – Victor taps back – "Jonathan is waiting for something."

"Or someone." – I tap – "With Jonathan Crane you can never be sure."

It is later in the night that I hear the first blast; one of the liquid nitrogen coolant pipes that maintains Victor's cell at the subzero temperatures he needs. Followed by another and yet another, each blast louder than the first and each rocking Arkham to its foundations. The British are coming.

I watch the lights in my cell flicker once, twice before surrendering to blackest night. Arkham is about to become a nightmare. I hear a collective scream ring out as the power goes out cell block by cell block and the electronic security doors deactivate and slam shut locking down inmates and staff alike in the darkness until the screaming reaches a crescendo of terror and then merciful silence.

I sit and wait, but not for long, the manual lock to my prison clicks opens and I hear the scratching of metal on the stone corridor outside my prison like chalk on blackboard. It sounds like something or someone is moving or dragging a large metallic object across the floor. I turn my head towards the door and greet my visitor – "Victor, long time no see."

Scuttling low on the ground with his long spinney limbs, Victor Freeze is nothing more than a frozen head and torso encased in an exoskeleton which resembles a giant spider crab. Clicking two of his metallic limbs together Victor taps his greetings to me. He has brought company, an old friend he tells me and I smile – "Prof Crane, how nice to see you again."

"Dr Isley, how very nice to see you again too." – Jonathan Crane returns my smile as he returns my greeting, his mouth full of small sharp white teeth all the better I imagine to eat me.

He is tall over 6 feet, long lean sinewy graceful like a cat with much the same eyes; his whites stained a curious jaundiced yellow all the better if I believe what he tells me to see me. He has spilled liquid perhaps coffee all across the front and sides of this jumpsuit leaving dark unpleasant patches that remind me of ink blotches. This is most unlike him. Crane is most careful about his appearance down to his immaculate tailored silk suits.

"I trust that you weren't too shaken by the explosions, Dr Isley? That's the problem with liquid nitrogen coolant systems isn't it, Dr Fries?" – He continues with a nudge and a wink, a parody of an over grown school boy put on specifically for our benefit – "You have to make sure some fool doesn't meddle with the pressure relief device. Its all better left to the experts."

Crane is polite and cheerful to a fault as he locates the manual release for my cell. There is something disturbing about a man who carries on as if he has just met old acquaintances for after dinner drinks when he has literally brought a heavily secured facility screaming to its knees. That must have pleased his bloated ego no end, the cries of a terrified Arkham sweet in his ears.

He springs the door to my cell and giving me his hand gently helps me out – "Mind your step, Dr Isley. They will be turning the emergency power on soon. Standard practice for a code red situation in Arkham, kill the power and switch to the backup generators."

The touch of his hand, the sound of his voice is warm, strong, reassuring. Jonathan Crane is an attractive attentive man with a wonderful old world manner about him but he makes the metaphysical hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. There is something about Crane; an unexplained darkness about him that makes even me uneasy.

He moves to check his watch but abruptly stops – "Oh I almost forgot." - He smiles as he reaches into the pocket of his jumpsuit for something and presses it into my hand – "A little gift, I heard what he does when he comes around. I just want you to know that I don't think it was very nice for him to do that. "

It's a small plastic name tag with the word "Leonard" stuck on it wet and slick with blood. Crane did not spill coffee on himself.

All this time, while Victor and I sat and waited in our cells, Crane was waiting for someone, someone with questionable judgment and behaviors who had access to the secured containment facility where Victor and I are kept. Someone whose damaged psyche he could sink his long fingers into, someone to twist, turn, and throw away like the screw top off a bottle when he saw fit. I wonder if Crane ever even knew his name.

Victor taps something to Crane and he nods in agreement – "Quite disgusting really." – Before turning to me in all earnestness – "We aren't all like that you know."

I smile and nod. Crane is a man who makes his point.

We are smiling in the dark like little children sharing a dirty joke when the lights begin flicking back on again. The Arkham grid has started drawing power from the backup generators, the same generators they use to electrify the metal mesh that covers the skylights of my cell to stop me from breaking through the glass. Someone should have told Cavendish that overloading the generators is a stupid thing to do if Arkham intends to keep me contained within the electrified barrier because as power is progressively restored to each facility it cause the continuous voltage running through the frame to spike dangerously downwards.

I have been wanting, waiting for this, looking out through the skylights day in and day out and knowing that if not for the lethal voltage running through the mesh I could simply think out loud and walk away from this detestable prison.

The vines lining the walls and roof of the cell block wake as they sense the disturbance in the rapidly weakening electric field and reach out lovingly to me. They have waited such a long time for our reunion. I watch as their tendrils send sprays of sparks out into the night as they impatiently tear their way through the metal mesh, shattering glass like falling leaves.

"It's beautiful, isn't it? Sorts of reminds me of the 4th of July and Christmas all rolled into one." – Crane whispers as he takes my hand. He is right it is beautiful; the taste of freedom is so sweet it takes my breath away. But Crane is not one to linger over beauty, like a man he has things to do and people to see – "Shall we go? Ladies first and mind the glass."

The last I see of Jonathan Crane is at a local tavern in Cancun. He is at the bar surrounded on all sides by a gaggle of giggling ladies all high on charm and tequila. A Gotham's ladies group that caters to wealthy women of a certain age eager to escape the winter snow and hail for a chance of romance down south. Crane is in his element.

I catch his eye across the room and we nod our silent good byes. He would have thought me rude to leave without a word. He is a strange man and I am not sad to see the back of him. I imagine that he will leave with his new friends to take in the sights as they make their way down the Yucatan Peninsula. Perhaps he will leave bodies in his wake, a boy here, a grandmother there or perhaps he will be the perfect travel companion, generous, witty, and kindly to a fault. He reminds me of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, only Crane is both at the same time.

I said my good byes to Victor soon after, he was making his way down to Antarctica where he hopes to be able to stabilize his rapidly deteriorating condition which has already resulted in the loss of his limbs. It started as a sore on one of his hands before quickly spreading to all his extremities, the quacks at Arkham just stood by and watched as gangrene set in and bit by bit his tissues turned black and malodorous.

I was only going as far as Kuhikugu at the headwaters of the Xingu River where I still have friends. I was sad to see Victor move on, I would miss our conversations. I hear later that he eventually returned to Gotham, drawn back by grief to locate the cryogenics capsule which holds the thing that was once his wife. He loves her truly, madly, deeply still. He is a man frozen in more ways than one. Crane likewise returned drawn back like Victor by his personal demons.

I don't know why I don't return maybe it's because unlike them I didn't wish to face my demons anymore. Perhaps I am less pragmatic than men. I believed I could run away from Gotham. Things are better here in the endless sea of green, where it's peaceful and full of life. Sometimes I dream about Robinson Park; my hanging gardens, the children, and my beautiful wild thorny rose. When I wake Gotham seems so far away in the heat and sounds of the jungle that stretches out as far as my eyes can see, and I take comfort in my forgetfulness. It should be spring again there. It was early spring when they pulled the first body out of the big lake which sits in the heart of Robinson Park. I remember she had beautiful cornstalk eyes.

Waylon comes to visit for a while. I know he hopes that I will return with him, he has so few friends left, but he does not press me. Instead he swims with me in the warm sunshine and makes me laugh again. Waylon loves making me laugh.

He tells me he thinks the fare in the Amazon Basin exotic and spicy, unlike the greasy fatty trash he feeds on at home. He tells me Dr Craver has a new high profile patient, a man who used to hawker hot dogs at the Park. I wish her all the best.

I don't know what became of Harley or her. Waylon never tells me and I never ask, soon Waylon too is gone; Gotham calls to him. He tells me that time heals all wounds, but distance is a comfort to those of us who cannot rely on the balm of time.

I image Harley is probably running circles round the Joker like a planet orbiting her sun king, and I know she's happy wherever she is. Harley somehow always is. Harley will eventually forget me, and find herself someone else to latch onto. Likewise she will be doing whatever she does. I think that's best too. She is better off without me, without having to play politics with the Bat.

One day, while I am sitting in the shade dreaming of cool summer nights in Robinson Park, one of the natives calls out to me and tells me that a woman has come to Kuhikugu, tourist to see the mythical lost city of Z. I say nothing. No one comes to Kuhikugu to see the sights. The British are coming, the Eagle has landed, and my past, present, and future are colliding.

I debate moving further inland away from the river where the virgin jungle is thickest and no human has ever ventured and returned, but I am tired of running. That night I make my way down to the river to the trading post, a figure is on the cot at the far wall sleeping when I enter. I stand and watch from the door a while before leaving.

She's waiting for me outside. "Was it difficult to find me?" – I ask. She steps out of the shadow into the silvery night; dark head dark eyes with that maddeningly familiar smile.

"I would have found you eventually." – She says quietly, with a hint of triumph despite the exhaustion etched into her face – "You didn't make it easy for me but I believe that if you really didn't want me to find you, the trail would be cold."

"Did you ever give up hope?" – I had forgotten how strangely charming she sometimes is. "Always and never." – She replies as she steps towards me – ". I would spend days and weeks following leads that went nowhere, but every time I felt like I had reached a dead end, there would be a news story, or a rumor, or an eyewitness report, that would point me back onto your trail…."

She hasn't changed. She is still full of herself, so cock sure of who she is and what she needs to do to maintain the status quo. But even more damming she sees me not as I am but what Gotham and the Batman have made me out to be; a danger that needs to be locked away in a tiny glass cell for the greater good.

I feel the familiar panic of fear and doubt seeping out of me like tainted water from a polluted spring. I paid the price once of believing that she would not unfairly judge me but in truth I am nothing more than a game to her; an interesting challenge she has set for herself. She has come to hunt me down and skin me for the bragging rights.

"I'm not going back to Arkham, detective" – The words come tumbling out of my mouth before she can finish speaking. She stops and looks at me as I slowly back away from her wary of any sudden moves. The jungle has suddenly gone quiet, the trees swaying unnaturally in the stillness.

She knows I am lethal when I have to be and if she is smart she will let things be, if she is not than we will see who hunts who down and skins them for the bragging rights. I will write my name across her smooth pale skin like I did to Edward Nigma. But she does not move, she is transfixed in position like a statue chiseled out of cold, dead marble looking at me with eyes alien and unreadable. I am almost in the safety of the dark cool green when she reaches out for my hand - "Pamela…please I want to talk."

I stop and stare. She looks like she might cry as she stands there all alone dirty and tired with an outstretched hand trying to hold onto someone she does not understand; Gotham a million miles away.

She has pursued me across a continent. I do not understand why she does not attack me, knock me down and push my face hard against the mud and tell me she is doing this because she wants to save me from myself. That is what they do. There is no grey in their world, only the clarity of sunlight and shadow.

She calls out to me again - "Pamela." - she says - "Please." - Not Poison Ivy just Pamela. I have not been Pamela for a long time. Woodrue killed her and I buried her deep down inside where she never sees the sun, that stupid naïve school girl who didn't know any better than to have a crush on her collage professor.

She is silently crying now as she reaches out to me, I can see the tears as they streak down her grime coated face; I still think beautiful. I do not rememeber the last time I cried.

Is this how things heal? Can I even begin to unravel the hurts that I wrap around myself like a coat of thistles? There is a lot I do not understand. I do not understand her. I do not understand myself. If imperfect understanding is the human condition, than there is no difference between her and me. We all pay a price for the roads we take, but sometimes we have a chance to stop and look back at the choices we make and if we are brave and bold enough to take steps to make amends. That much I know.

She has pursued me across a continent, but she will let me walk away from her; disappear back into the vast sea that is the jungle if that is what I want. She has given me more of a choice than I have ever given her.

I turn and look at the green all around me taking their beauty into myself one last time, before I walk back into the night drawn by a desire I had thought forgotten to touch her face.

***

THE END (???) - for now at least? OK I need to apologise. This is the 3rd time I've rewritten this chapter and baring hell and high water this is it. If you're pissed at having to read it again, I'm really sorry it took so long for me to get things together. The endings always kill me. Please leave a review.


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